


Fake Plastic Me

by SecretGeniusShittyKnight (augopher)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Depersonalization-Derealization Disorder (DPD), F/M, Fanart, Institutionalization (Brief), Johnson is half-Latino, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person, Parent-Child Relationship, Playlist, because really- can you write Johnson any other way?, past parent death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11669244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/SecretGeniusShittyKnight
Summary: What is your earliest memory? First day of school? Your third birthday? Your sister throwing a tantrum on the Easter Bunny’s lap when you were four? All are reasonable choices. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Mine though?That’s the thing. I have no story. No memories. One moment I was nothing and the next a character fully aware of my own fictionality.  And you know, I’ve always been okay with this. Until recently.Lately, it seems my whole world has been, how shall I say...a little off-kilter and three steps to the left.





	Fake Plastic Me

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [OMGCP_Heartbreak_Fest_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/OMGCP_Heartbreak_Fest_2017) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
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> Characters/Pairings: Johnson/anyone  
> Prompt Details: “How does that work?”  
> “It’s like being high all the time. Like seeing little blips of clarity in a fog of mortality.”  
> Additional Info: Either how Johnson starts to forget he’s a fictional character or how he has to chose between omniscience and a normal life. Bonus points for a happy ending (but not necessary)  
> Squicks: non-con  
> Maximum Rating:M

[playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/augopher42/playlist/6awigGqaaumEBCsywSaBKo)

What is your earliest memory? First day of school? Your third birthday? Your sister throwing a tantrum on the Easter Bunny’s lap when you were four? All are reasonable choices. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Mine though?

 

That’s the thing. I have no story. No memories. The Creator, she wrote that I was born in New York and moved to Minneapolis as a kid. I know that is a fallacy, because I wasn’t born. Not in the way you were. I sprung fully formed from The Creator’s mind like Athena from Zeus’ head. One moment I was nothing and the next a character fully aware of my own fictionality. You’d think that would do a number on a guy, but I guess when you’ve known nothing else, there’s not much to contest.

 

I’m merely a bunch of black lines and color on a computer screen. Hell, I don’t even have a face. I’m only here to serve as a plot device. My reality is imaginary, a serialized story created for the masses. I know what will happen; it’s not a new development. Back in college I would know the games we would win, would lose. I would know when Ransom would crawl under a table crushed by the weight of test anxiety.

 

I see events with perfect clarity, crystal clear and omniscient. I know this because _she_ knows this. And you know, I’ve always been okay with this.

 

Until recently.

 

Lately, it seems my whole world has been, how shall I say...a little off-kilter and three steps to the left. I know no other way to explain it, except to call it low-definition.

 

Daniela knows of my “special” qualities, though I don’t think she believes me, not fully. Perhaps she thinks I’m being philosophical when I say things like Bitty and Jack’s obliviousness was necessary, one hundred percent necessary to further the story. Or maybe she thinks I’m being poetic.

 

But for all my omniscience, all my realization that I am not a real person, The Creator still gave me feelings. I know they are the figment of someone else’s imagination, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt sometimes to look at my girlfriend.

 

Daniela Daniels--I know what you’re thinking. How cute that The Creator would give you both reduplicated names. It’s not cute; it’s the creation of this lowly fanfiction writer because The Creator didn’t even give my girlfriend a name--I don’t even have memory for how we met. I just know I’ve been dating her for years now. Does she have a face too? Doubtful. I don’t. Do I have a family? I’m sure I do, but I can’t recall their faces either.

 

Such a strange little world in which I’ve found myself playing a part.

 

***

 

The sun is harsh as it beats down on Daniela and me, but the breeze is cool and refreshing. We’ve spread a blanket out over the grass in the park. She’s made me Waldorf salad; she says it’s my favorite. She’s been with me for five years now, so I suppose she knows what I like. I know things about her, too.

 

She has dark brown hair, the color of deep mahogany, which curls in soft ringlets around the middle of her back. Today, she’s tied it up in a ponytail held in place by a pink hair ribbon. I know pink is her favorite, told me so herself. Her eyes are a similar shade of brown. There is a growler of craft beer sitting between us, half-drank by this point. It’s an IPA, _her_ favorite. I know _this_ , because I asked.

 

It’s a funny thing, this fictional life. When The Creator first dreamed up the idea of me, naturally I just assumed that my existence would fade when I was not in frame. For a while, this was true. Hell, for the whole first year it was true. But then… I graduated, and I had this whole other world that existed off the screen.

 

I have a job. Well, it’s more that The Creator says I do, but somehow money finds its way into my bank account. So I suppose it must be true. I don’t really know what I do there, only that I have spontaneous thoughts and update the company Facebook page.

 

However, it’s my life that she _didn’t_ bother writing that is all my own. Daniela and I rent a condo downtown. It’s nice, has two bedrooms, a great view. She’s decorated the place with photos of cute animals. She’s a soft person like that, and I love her for it. At least I think I love her. I can’t be sure if it’s a real emotion, or a creation of another, but fuck if I don’t intend to hold onto it tightly.

 

While she went inside the brewery to buy refreshments earlier, I ducked across the street to buy her cosmos, her favorite. She didn’t have to tell me that; I figured that one out on my own by the size of her smile the first time I bought them. Then again, maybe they’re only her favorite because _I_ bought them once. If that’s true, well she’s never said.

 

Daniela takes a sip from her purple plastic tumbler. “How does that work?”

 

“How does what work?” I ask, though I know exactly what she means. It’s both a gift and a curse, this fickle thing called omniscience.

 

“That screen you talk about, the one that separates us from the audience, the one only you can see.”

 

Stretching out on the blanket, I look up at the clouds. One floats by that looks like an alligator. As it approaches another shaped like a teapot, its form shifts a little, its jaws parting just enough for the two clouds to collide as though the gator took a drink of it. I wonder what kind of tea it was. I bet it was oolong. Alligators look like they’d be the kind of reptile to like oolong. “It’s like being high all the time. Like seeing little blips of clarity in a fog of mortality.”

 

I run my hands through my hair. Often I have tried to articulate this gift of mind, put into words how jarring it is sometimes. I fail every time. “No,” I sigh, “that’s not right. It’s...You know those cop procedurals, where the suspect is in interrogation and he always just seems to know the mirror in the room is a two-way, how he looks right at the detectives on the other side that he knows are there but he can’t see?”

 

She plucks a grape from the bunch and holds it to my lips. “Yeah? It’s like that?”

 

“No. It’s the opposite. I am the suspect, but though I _know_ it’s a two-way mirror, I can see everyone looking back at us. It’s _them_ that can’t see me. It’s why I have no face, merely a pair of blue eyes and chestnut hair. Sometimes, some of them think they understand my voice and try to write me into narratives of their own. I like those stories; they make me feel a bit more fleshed out, a bit more whole.”

 

Deep furrows form between Daniela’s brows. Though I have long since learned all her expressions based on her eyes alone, I still second guess myself sometimes. She’s probably frowning though she can’t decide what my angle is. Am I waxing poetic, or fatalistic, or something worse? It’s things like that which remind me how painful my whole  existence can be sometimes. “Oh. That’s...gotta be rough.”

 

She has no idea.

 

***

 

A noise jars me from my sleep, and I try my best not to wake Daniela. Not a hard task; she always could sleep like the dead, who I suspect sleep quite like the the fictionally unaware. The room around me is silent other than her soft and even breaths beside me, no indication of anything out of the ordinary. So I climb out of bed and head down the hall. Something woke me, and better safe than sorry, though it’s not as if there would be a break in.

 

No, for that to happen, such a momentous event as that- well I would surely know about it ahead of time.

 

However, once I stepped foot in the living room, there was nothing but silence. Rather than go back to bed and ponder the meaningless of my day to day life knowing it’s not real, I head out onto the balcony glass of water in hand. It’s humid out, too much for my liking, but it’s bearable.

 

In the distance, I hear the somber hoot of an owl as though it were speaking to me directly to ask, “Why are you here, John? You’ve exhausted your purpose in this narrative. Just slip into the background where you belong.”

 

If only it were that easy. The city lights offer up a sleepy orange glow around the blackness that is the park across the street. The longer I stare at that empty sky, the more clear a pair of eyes becomes. Why would anyone be up this late taking a peek into my life? I’m really not that interesting. Perhaps that, in itself, is why. I’m safe, nothing jarring or spectacular will happen by reading panels of my life. I’m an easy choice when up against the tenuous task of balancing a relationship many of the public and fellow players in the league deem wrong.

 

I scratch my chin, wondering if at the end of my plotline--the true end of my plotline, mine and everyone else’s in this invented world we call home--The Creator will create a little sketch of a cemetery of sorts to symbolize the end of her project. Will my headstone read ‘Here lies John Johnson, metaphysical man of mystery. A really weird Guy’? I hope I do something a bit more worthwhile with my character arc.

 

A wry chortle works its way free from my throat. What character arc? A better tagline would be: ‘Here lies Johnson: He knew he wasn’t real. Unlike all of you’.

 

Then, a flicker of movement ahead of me catches my eye. Gone are the pair of eyes, the subtle outline of a room illuminated by a computer screen, the world outside. It’s short, this flash in front of me, only a second or two, but it’s enough for me to notice. I can always see past that screen, the fourth wall, no matter how dark on the other side. It’s been that way for my whole existence.

 

This was, for lack of a better word, weird. Then again, maybe I am just too tired for this shit.

 

***

 

“Juanito, are you listening to me?” my mother asks one Sunday over the phone.

 

To be honest, no. No, definitely not. What I know about my mother could fill an index card. It’s all a bunch of basic concepts. Her name: Jacinta, her hair color: black, born: Guadalajara, and so on. I cannot, however, recall what she looks like, and I suspect that she, too, has no face.

 

In this world, if you lie outside the main group of characters, there really isn’t much to you, like all those unnamed taddies. Who are they and what are they like? I know, of course _I_ know. Everyone else however...yeah, nothing.

 

“I’m sorry, mom,” I tell her, “it’s been a long couple of weeks.”

 

“Mom? You’ve never called me that before. What happened to Mamá?” It is then that I notice her accent. I couldn’t remember ever hearing it before. The fact of which jars me.

“Slip of the tongue,” I lie. She doesn’t need to know I forgot. That would be rude. “Daniela’s parents were in town all week. Force of habit, you know?”

 

I hear her mutter in Spanish, and in the back of my mind, I know, I _know_ I should understand what she’s saying. I should.

 

But I don’t.

 

That cannot possibly be right. The Creator gave me fluency in Spanish. The harder I try, the more I fail to grasp a word she’s said, and it’s like the floor gives way. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that last bit.”

 

Luckily, this stops her, and she changes the subject. “You need to practice your Spanish more.,” she says simply. “You may call Boston home now, but don’t forget where you’ve come from, mijo.”

 

Blinking, I flounder for a response. In the end, all I can manage is a half-hearted, “I know. I won’t.” What I should have said comes five minutes after we’ve ended our call. _Where_ **_do_ ** _I come from, Mamá?_

 

Minneapolis by way of Rochester, New York is the honest answer, but I’ve never been to either of those cities in my life. At least...I don’t think I have.

 

As I rub my temples, I go back through the memories I’ve been given so as to seem like a real person. Where there should be a blankness of my hometown, I get little flashes of scenery: A red knight’s helmet on the tile floor of a high school, a Sunday morning mass surrounded by other parishioners (I can’t remember going to church a day in my life. Yet, there I am, in the third row with my parents), a sign reading Cedar Lake Point Beach, an old Minnesota North Stars blanket on a too-small twin bed. It is at this point that I realize I have no explanation for these images, but I feel as though I’ve been there.

 

My head swims. I’m dizzy.

 

“Johnny, are you okay?” Daniela is there to catch me before I fall down.

 

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe me. That’s okay. It’s good that I don’t have to tell her everything but she somehow still knows.  “I think I’m just gonna go lie down.”

 

In bed, as I lie there staring up at my ceiling, I feel a strange sensation. As though part of me is being re-rendered, like my outlines are pushing and pulling, rearranging themselves so I can better fit. Suddenly, that off-kilter feeling that has been following me around just on the peripheries of my awareness is stronger, and my world is no longer only a few steps to the left but a whole damn football field. So, I sit up, try to focus on that only-visible-to-me wall. There, like always, are the eyes of curious readers. Then, yet again, I notice a blip that I can only compare to the dying of a pixel on a television screen. Only this time, once the second is over, I can no longer see through that tiny space in the two-way mirror of my omniscience. Confused and a little afraid, I focus, cataloging every piece of the fourth wall. It is then I notice little blank spaces of the screen, dozens if not hundred of dead pels. How did I miss this before?

 

At the sight, my stomach can no longer keep down my lunch.

 

***

 

“There was a time,” I announce to the empty park in front of me. Though it’s a bit hazy, I think there are some people watching me out there on the balcony, reading what I have to say in the little speech bubbles above my head. I think. It’s been a bit iffy lately. I clear my throat and start over. “There was a time, when I had all the answers. I was as confident as I was wise. That time, dear readers, has come and gone.”

 

“Sweetie, who are you talking to?” Daniela calls from the kitchen.

 

“Oh you know...the usual.” That’s just it though, who _was_ the usual? I just don’t know anymore.

 

I think I hear her chirp me for being weird. I have no rebuttal for that.

 

The computer screen through which I gaze upon the outside world has lost more pixels, over half are gone now, and with each one that burns out, I feel a little less connected than I was before. Has The Creator decided I am _truly_ no longer necessary? Is this her way of writing me out of existence? A horrifying thought crosses into my mind…

 

 Am I being written out or merely forgotten?  Neither choice is something I really want to consider, but it sure feels that way lately.

 

On my desk sits a stack of orange sticky notes, and I take a few of them along with a black marker, writing variations of the same thing on each: I am not real. You are not real. None of this is real. Maybe these little reminders will help with this- well, I’m not sure what to call it. Malaise?

 

I feel Daniela’s arms wrap around my waist, feel her chin settle on my shoulder. It’s nice that she’s close in height to me; it makes moments like this better. I glance down at her hands splayed across my stomach, and I think how nice it would be to see a ring on her finger. That, however, is not up to me. I’d like it to be, but it’s all up to The Creator, and something tells me fleshing out my life story is not a priority of hers.

 

“Are you okay? You’ve seemed a bit down lately.” Her question and concern sounds honest enough. So at least I can thank The Creator for that.

 

My head lolls back to rest on her shoulder, and I swallow hard. “I don’t know. Something’s off.”

 

“You know,” she starts, overly cautious in a way I’ve not seen her before, “I always went along with what you said about none of this being real. I figured it was one of your quirks. Like some people are cynical, so maybe you were just solipsistic. But...sometimes, I worry you might actually believe the things you say. I don’t want you to lose yourself in your metaphysics. You’re still you, still here, and believe it or not, you’re real to me.”

 

As she spins me in her arms, I cannot help but stare, a fact she doesn’t fail to notice.

 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She takes a step back, a look of horror etched on her features...features that-

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like you’ve never seen me before in your life.”

 

How do I tell her she was right? I had looked at her thousands of times in our years together, and never once did she ever have a face beyond a pair of gorgeous eyes with impossible lashes? Yet standing in front of me, was a full person. The kind of character everyone else in this ridiculous comic got to be. I fight back a twinge of envy. Why couldn’t that be me too? Why do I have to be I the fictionalized voice of The Creator? I want to be blissfully ignorant too. The ups the downs, the suspense…

 

I want it all.

 

“Your face...it’s…”

 

Hastily, she wipes at her cheeks as if there was something there that shouldn’t have been. Well of course there was. Her whole face shouldn’t have been there. My whole existence I have had someone faceless just like me, and now? I was alone.

 

“Beautiful. I- I-” Words fail me, but the few I do have are effective. The rosy tinge that blooms on her cheeks is like crack. I crave more, need more immediately. And she is, beautiful I mean. Full lips and high cheekbones, but there’s a softness I’m saddened that I had never seen before. I’ve been cheated, but I hide my anger at The Creator. It’s not Daniela’s fault.

 

Just like that, I allay her concerns. She pats me on the cheek. “You’re so sweet, Johnny.” She kisses my forehead. “What do you say to pizza tonight? I don’t feel like cooking.”

 

“I could cook, if you want.”

 

She rolls her eyes and chuckles with me. “Very funny. You? Cook? You burn toast.”

 

“I...do?”

 

“Nice of you to try to help. But that’s okay.” When she pats my cheek this time, I can’t help but notice the faint sadness in her eyes. I should ask what that is about. I don’t, and I spend all night regretting it.

 

When I lie down in bed later I can see nobody on the other side of that screen of reality. There are no eyes reading my tales all night long. I can’t tell if that’s a good thing.

 

***

 

From where I sit the balcony, I can hear Daniela on the phone in the kitchen. I don’t think she realized I have the sliding glass door open a crack. I’m not sure why I did that.

 

“He’s starting to really worry me, Jaci,” she says. I never knew she had my mother’s phone number, let alone called her by a nickname. How often did they talk on the phone? How have I missed this? I know...everything. Right?

 

I scratch my head. What else have I been missing?

 

“No, I know you told me that his therapist said we’re not supposed to play into it, but he was happier when I did. Now it’s just...he seems less convinced he’s fictional, but he’s so much sadder now. So he’s better but at what cost?”

 

Whoa, whoa, whoa...she told my mother about my fictionality? And what the hell was this nonsense about a therapist?

 

Even though it seemingly, came from a place of good intentions I grind my teeth at the betrayal. Instead of confronting her right away, I take several minutes to calm down, think things through.

 

It’s been several days, almost a week know, since I’ve seen a reader looking in on our little world. Four days ago, though, I did see the dim light I’ve come to recognize as the lamp on The Creator’s desk as she sat down to work. I could feel the change in the energy of our world as she expanded upon it, giving more depth to Bitty’s story, Jack’s, hell even Ollie and Wicky’s, everyone...except me.

 

I can’t look at the park anymore, its beauty too overwhelming for me, and so I sink down to the floor in the corner. Here, the wall hides me from Daniela’s view, and the solid railing hides me from everyone on the other side of my balcony. Too often lately, I feel watered down, drifting through my days and most of my nights in this thick fog. It’s infiltrated my mind with its wicked tendrils trying to steal my omniscience, forcing cracks into my consciousness. Those times when that haze is at its worst, it almost makes me forget that neither me nor anyone or anything else in this world is real. It would be damn near blissful if I’d asked for it, but I haven’t. It’s an unwelcome intruder, a villain, a thief. It’s a parasite stealing everything I know about myself.

 

I want it gone.

 

When my head falls into my hands, I can’t help it. It’s just too heavy with the weight of my fictitious world. I used to be strong enough to bear the knowledge of that. I don’t think that anymore.

 

And so I do the only thing I can think of in my moment of desperation. I try and claw it out, that fog. If I can only bring those cracks to the surface, maybe it will have an escape route.

 

I hear someone calling my name, but it’s muffled, sort of like being underwater. Or maybe it’s exactly that. Maybe I _am_ underwater. I just don’t know anymore.

 

“John, stop!”

 

Someone pulls my hands away from my scalp, and I look up to see Daniela kneeling in front of me. Her cheeks are wet, eyes red and swimming with tears.

 

“What did…” My voice trails off as I let my sight drift down to where my hands trembling, quaking like a fault line, fingertips red with blood. “I...don’t…”

 

A fractured sob, like the sound of breaking glass escapes my throat. She pulls me into a hug, holding me tightly against her chest. Her soft words of comfort, do little to help.

 

“It’s not fair! Why don’t I get to be real?”

 

“Shh,” Daniela says as she massages the cropped hair at my nape, careful to avoid the fresh scratches in my scalp that I can tell now are bleeding.

 

“I want a face! Everyone else has one. Why not me?”

 

I don’t know what makes me look up, but I do and find almost all the pixels in the screen separating me from the real world dead. And yet, I no longer care about them, or whether anyone is watching on.

 

I feel sick to my stomach at the idea, that not only am I fictional, but that no one is even reading my story anymore. Was anyone ever reading it? I can’t even remember how many panels I’ve been in. Am I even fictional? Or is this some sort of sick dream?

 

My head swims. Every joint in my body aches. I yearn for sleep, can’t remember the last time I did that.

 

***

 

The stark walls around me are almost pristine except for this marred patch by my headboard. The white tile has been gouged away, letters scratched into the surface. It reads: Ben was here.

 

I hope Ben got better.

 

The walls are white, and I hate them. They’re too bright, too pure for what goes on in here. It’s been two weeks since Daniela found me screaming, “You’re not real!,” at the bathroom mirror, two weeks since my mother checked me in here. She told me it was to help, but somehow I don’t think it matters. What kind of person would yell that at their reflection? Seems silly.

 

The door to my room opens and in walks a nurse; her nametag reads ‘Agnes’. She smiles at me, asks, “How are you doing today, John?” My answer is a lie, but she takes it at face value, which makes me breathe a sigh of relief. She tells me it’s time for my medication.

 

“What medication?”

 

“The same one we’ve been giving you since you came in,” she says as she hands me a little paper cup containing two pills. For some reason I trust her warm smile, even though there is a hint of duplicity lingering between her eyes, and I swallow down the meds, following her request that I open my mouth to show her I’ve actually consumed them. “Thank you for cooperating. You’re going to get better, John. I can tell.”

 

“I’m feeling a lot more like myself.” Again, I lie, but since I’m not really sure what I’m doing here in the first place…As she leaves, she reminds me that it’s board game night and patients are encouraged to attend.

 

I hate board games. A night of Catan in the Haus ruined them for me. You can only tolerate so much of Holster’s booming accusations that Jack cheated, before you stand on the coffee table with Shitty’s megaphone and ban all board games going forward. Then again, I suspect it was the little wooden boat that flew across the room and landed in my beer that really did it.

 

It’s not long before I feel the effects of whatever the hell those pills were starting to come over me. Oh yeah, I remember, they make me sleepy. How could I forget that? I think the fogginess they cloud my brain with is fucking with my memory.

 

I’m not sure it’s a bad thing.

 

***

 

“So talk to me, John,” Dr. Schlessinger crosses one leg over the other as he stares at me over the top of his browline glasses, “it’s been a month. If you were to think back on how you felt right before you arrived and then compare it to how you feel sitting here today, how would you describe it?”

 

I rub my forehead, scratching along the top of my brow. “I guess I would say...fuck, I don’t know. I wish I could pinpoint what made me think everything wasn’t real before, but I can’t you know? It’s like… gradual. I think it started as a philosophical question. Sort of like, “Why are we here?’ or something like that. I guess, I just started to believe it. Coping mechanism probably.”

 

I tune out whatever he says next. I just want to go home to Daniela. I miss her smell. Yet, whatever I say to his numerous questions must convince him I’m better enough to be discharged.

 

Small victories are all it takes sometimes.

 

***

 

“What do you think of this color,” Daniela asks, holding up a paint swatch for my opinion.

 

I shrug. “Dunno. Honestly, I like the blue, especially when the sunset comes in over the park.”

 

She nods as if this response is acceptable, then begins to peruse the selection for a suitable color. When she hands me a softer, lighter shade, one that resembles the sky, I smile. “Yeah. This one is perfect.”

 

As she takes the swatch and two gallons of eggshell finish to the clerk, all I can do is stand back and admire her….everything. How did I manage to land someone so resourceful, kind, beautiful? Luck I suppose.

 

Once we’ve paid for the paint and arrived home, she says, “Let’s go for a walk. It’s a beautiful day.”

 

While we walk, she holds my hand tighter than I remember her ever doing, as if she’s afraid I’ll wander away. I tell her this and watch, with great delight, as a soft rose blooms in her cheeks. It’s endearing; I tell her this, too. To the surprise of no one, the pinkness in her face deepens.

 

It’s too much a temptation to resist, and I kiss her, without a care of anyone on the street seeing.

 

When she finally pulls away, giddy, a warm smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. Her deep brown eyes are alight with the sun. “What was that for?” She chuckles. “Not that I’m complaining.”

 

“No reason really. I just love you that’s all.”

 

She takes a step back, stares at me as though she’s never seen me before in her life. It’s alarming.

 

“Before you got treatment...you never would have said that.” There are unshed tears in her eyes, and I want to kick myself for putting them there.

 

Instead, I do the next best thing: I brush them away before they have a chance to fall. “Really? I’ve never told you I loved you?”

 

“Not like that. You’d have prefaced it with something about The Creator writing you to have deep feelings for me, but you were never sure if they were your own.”

 

I pull her into a tight embrace. I’m afraid to let her go, ever. “Well, that me was a fool.”

 

“No,” she says, caressing my cheek, “you were just sick. That’s all. Not your fault. I’m just happy to see you better and happy. It suits you.”

 

It’s my turn to feel flustered.

 

“No, really. Johnny, I loved you even when you were ill and in a bad place. I love you still, but you feel much more whole now.” Her words are a bit odd, but I chalk it up to nerves and the lack of a proper synonym.

 

We continue our walk through the park, where I notice the leaves on the trees are just beginning to change. Autumn. I recall where I was three months ago, taking my first steps back in my own home. It seems momentous when I think about it now. But I also remember a thought I’d considered fleeting before...in that dark place. “Hey, Dani…” I swallow, try to work up the courage.

 

“Hmm.” She’s only half paying attention, focusing on a late summer hollyhock instead of me, which actually works better.

 

“You wanna get married?”

 

Her head almost snaps towards me, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I worry it might just pop off her neck. Like I said, it was a fleeting thought.

 

“Really? You’re serious?”

 

“Yeah. I thought about it before, but well you know…”

 

“I’d love to.”

 

This time, when I kiss her, I swear I hear clapping and a dramatic movie score from a far off distance. Must be my imagination running wild.

 

***

 

No sooner than she walks through our front door, my mother grabs my face, squishing my cheeks together. “Oh Juanito, I’m so happy. My little boy is getting married.” She kisses my forehead and picks up her frankly intimidating suitcase off the floor.

 

“I thought you were only gonna be here a week, Mamá. Why do you need a bag that large?”

 

“This old thing? It’s full of wedding planning stuff. Daniela and I have been busy.”

 

Daniela wraps her arms around my waist from behind. “You know, since I don’t have a mom of my own to do this stuff with,” she says wistfully. “Feel free to run anything you want by my dad.”

 

Once again my mom is at my cheek, this time to pat it with soft affection. “Oh mijo, I wish your papá were here to see this.”

 

Her words confuse me, but then again, maybe I wasn’t paying attention. “How do you mean?”

 

She gives me this look that says, _What is there to be confused by in that statement?_ Then, however, her face softens. “I know that was a rough time for you. All the rehab, the time in the hospital.”

 

I look down as she rubs the long scar on my arm. “I’d almost forgotten that was there.”  Despite seeing it everyday, I cannot for the life of me recall how I got it.

 

“I would too if it came with the bad memory of how you got it. There really is no place in the world for driving drunk. And look what that woman took from us. Your papá doesn’t get to see the man you’ve grown into, and you- well, let’s not dwell on your illness right now. You’re really doing so much better. How are you feeling?” She points to something in one of the bridal magazines, and Daniela’s face lights up.

 

I love seeing that look knowing I helped put it there.

 

***

 

It’s dark out when we finally finish touring possible venues for the day. Daniela insists we stop at the gelato shop on the corner to split a waffle cone of pistachio. We pass it back and forth while we walk down the street, hand-in hand. The streetlamps cast a warm glow on her olive skin, and once again, I am awestruck by her beauty.

 

I’m a lucky man, damn lucky.

 

Something flickers faintly in the sky above us, and at first, I brush it off as a passing plane perhaps. However, when it happens again in another spot and then another, I can’t help but look up. Aside from stars, the moon, and a few clouds, I can make out the nigh imperceptible outline of soft glowing squares. What in the hell?

 

Daniela notices my sudden distraction and pulls me into a kiss. I can taste the gelato on her tongue. It’s a heady mix, and it makes me dizzy. When she releases the grip she has on the front of my jacket, she is glowing.

 

Then, the wind changes direction, and the distinct smell of Captain Morgan wafts my way. It’s as though the floor drops out from under me; my whole world tilts on a different axis. I...know that smell. And it wasn’t from every single college party I’d ever been to--they all had a bottle of Captain--it was from something else. I blink several times as I try to make sense of it all. But you know, that’s really fucking hard when flashing images of headlights and broken glass and...blood….

 

“What’s wrong, Johnny?” she asks while she rubs my back.

 

I can’t- this was…”I’m not feeling too good, Dani. Can we just go home?”

 

Her concern is palpable. Yet, when she says she loves me...it somehow doesn’t feel quite real.

 

***

“John, are you okay in there?” Daniela pounds on the door to the bathroom.

 

I’ve been staring into the mirror now for at least thirty minutes. I’ve never been a vain sort of guy, even after _The Swallow_ kept voting me to their 50 Most Beautiful list. It is what it is I suppose, but well...I miss my face. After all, it’s been with me since birth. Now, though I see empty blue eyes gazing back at me. No nose, no mouth...just eyes.

 

When I first saw my reflection this morning, I almost had a heart attack. My features are still there. I can feel them. My nose is where it’s always been, slightly too big for my face, but still there. My teeth are straight like always, and yet when I look in the mirror, I see nothing.

 

To allay her fears, I open the door and am floored once more. Daniela is little more that a faceless being, I see her hair, but her body is a bit hazy, and she has no face at all. The only indicator I have that she is concerned is her voice. Even that though is a bit distorted. “Yeah,” I lie, “I just, working on my eyebrows. They’ve gotten a bit bushy.”

 

Her head cranes to the side. “They look the same as yesterday.”

 

“Really? After all that work?” I am going for nonchalance, but I am sure I’ve failed. I push past her with some half- thought out excuse of needing to run errands, chalk my odd behavior up to nerves about the wedding.

 

She hands me my wallet, says her customary _I love you_ that she does anytime we part. This time when she says it, I _know_ it’s not real. My only response is to say, “Me too,” and even that feels foreign in my mouth.

 

Once outside, I feel my hold on things unraveling even more. There’s this prickly feeling on the back of my neck, as if I am being watched. So I turn around and find the street behind me empty...empty that is except for several people I’m sure I knew from the neighborhood, each one of them just as faceless as Daniela, their bodies even more foggy. I clutch at my hair, the need to figure shit out driving my steps.

 

Someone asks me if I’m all right, but I hear nothing. Why? Because they said nothing. Their words seemed to appear out of thin air inside speech bubbles as if they were some damned comic book character. Startled, I stagger backwards before I take off sprinting down the street. I run for blocks, for miles even. By the time I stop, my lungs burn; my muscles ache. It’s been a few years since college, and I know I’m not in the shape I once was. As I catch my breath, I try to ground myself, figure out what fresh hell I was currently living.

 

Underneath a full oak tree, sits an empty bench. To say the respite was blissful would be an overstatement, but it’s enough to get my heartrate down at least. No one--I repeat--no one since I’d left my building had a face, and the longer I ran, the less there was to each person I passed on the street. By now, they are little more than shades, translucent holograms.

 

A deafening boom followed by the sound of crumbling stone cracks through the air, and I slam my hands over my ears to block the noise. To my horror, I watch a dozen rowhouses begin to disappear from the street as though they were are deleted by some unseen deity.

 

 _Don’t you mean The Creator?_ \- a spiteful voice in my head taunts. As loath as I am to admit it, the title sounds familiar.

 

I close my eyes in an effort to stop seeing what was no longer there that _should_ be there. What I hoped would be relief from the sight only gives way to images that feel like memories of a life I’ve _never_ lived. Who was that auburn haired man with the wide smile I kept seeing flash in and out of frame? I see lakes, so many lakes, and I feel like I should know them. On one, I see a sign reading ‘Bde Maka Ska’. The scene looks familiar, and yet I am _positive_ I have never been there myself. Before I can even think, once more I see those headlights speeding towards a car in which I’m riding.

 

I swear I can hear shattering glass.

 

Unable to bear the darkness and the thoughts in my head, my eyes snap open where I am confronted with a colorless street, devoid of depth. When I look at my hand, I am merely a pencil drawn outline. I feel empty.

 

There is a line in The Fellowship of the Ring, wherein Bilbo says he feels, ‘thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread.’ I would say that is _exactly_ how I feel, but thinner- a wisp on the wind. Though it takes great effort, I manage to stand and take several steps further down the street.

 

In the sky above, hundreds of backlit squares shine down on me. In each one, I can see a face...a full face, not just eyes or even less. Their expressions range from horrified, to amused, and I think, how can _anyone_ find amusement in this: The destruction of a man on the edge?

 

Their words rain down on me like a hurricane, words that aren’t meant for me to hear, but I pick them up anyway.

 

 _Do you think he knows?_ _Do you think he knows he’s no longer relevant?_

 

_Cut the crap! No matter what your therapy would have you believe, you’re not real! You never were!_

 

_She’s right’ Listen to the woman with the popcorn and beer. You’re a fictional character and nothing in your world is real._

 

_Daniela’s ‘I love you’ felt fake because it was._

 

I can’t take it anymore, but no matter how far I run the voices follow me. The way they always have.

 

The way they always will.

 

Eventually, I can run no further. Doubled over, winded and tormented, I glance up and see the sign for South Station. The voices dull once I walk through the doors, and after several tries, I find an elderly woman who I convince with a sob story of losing my ID, but that I really need to get to my grandmother. I tell her I can pay the ticket price in cash plus the gift ticket fee if she can purchase it for me. I should feel bad about lying to an old lady, but I don’t.

 

“I understand what it’s like to be a long way from your family when a crisis happens. I hope your grandma gets better soon.”

 

“Thank you, ma’am.”

 

Once I have the ticket in my hand, a large group of people enter the station, leaving the doors in a constant state of open for almost a minute. It may not seem like a long time, but it was enough for the words of that chorus of unseen viewers to needle their way into the room.

 

_‘Just accept it!’_

 

_‘Everything you see is fake; is an illusion.’_

 

_‘Come on, if Deadpool can do it, surely you can.’_

 

_‘You’re not real!’_

_‘You’re not real!’_

_‘You’re not real!’_

_‘You’re not real!’_

_‘You’re not real!’_

_‘You’re not real!’_

 

Once all their cries blend together saying the same thing, I can no longer escape it. It’s like a black anvil cloud on the horizon. Each new voice that joins in adds another updraft of doubt and fear until the taunts swirl around me in a tornado of tormenting negativity. If I had any second thoughts about what I was planning on doing, this new assault on my fragile state of mind obliterates them.

 

With a resigned sigh, I scan the station until I find a payphone. Leave it to a transportation hub to be the one remaining location of the things. I’m glad in this moment that I have long since memorized Daniela’s number, since I neglected to bring my phone. I’d say it was accidental, but I know how GPS works. In reality, I just didn’t want to be found.

 

I still don’t.

 

I buy a pack of overpriced gum from the Starbucks in order to make change, asking for three dollars in quarters. I hope that’s enough. My fingers shake as I slip the required number of coins into the slot. _Please answer_ , I think. I would hate to do this without talking to her.

 

My affection may be the creation of someone’s imagination, but they feel real to her...and me. That’s what makes all this worse. Knowing they aren’t, knowing it’s just some neglected plotline in a story hurts more than realizing there’s nothing left for me in this fictitious world.

 

Daniela’s voice shakes when she answers, “Hello?”

 

“Hola, mi cielo,” I wince at the quiver in my words.

 

“Oh my God, Johnny! You’ve been gone all night. Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

 

It certainly didn’t feel like all night. It felt like both minutes and eons.

 

“I’m sorry. I- nothing’s real, Dani. No one has a face, not you, not me, not Mrs. Tarpinian downstairs. Nobody. I saw buildings erased and words in speech bubbles. Dani...we’re not real.”

 

I can’t help but cry now especially when I hear the tears in her voice as she responds with, “Honey, yes you are. You are real. Pleas-”

 

“No, I’m not.” I can feel what little resolve I have left crumbling. “It’s okay that you don’t believe me. It’s just the way you’re written.”

 

“Johnny, please. You’re real; I promise you are. Baby,” she sobs, “you’re just sick. This is an episode, derealization, that’s all it is. Please come home, so I can help you.”

 

My knuckles are white, and my hands hurt from how hard I am clutching the phone. “There’s nothing to help. The Creator has decided we’re not relevant to the plot anymore. Our whole world is being deleted.”

 

“No, no it isn’t,” her words are soft, and maybe to anyone else, they’d be comforting, but not me. I know the truth. “You have the most ridiculous name; you’re John Juan Johnson. Your parents are James and Jacinta. You were born January 12, 1992 at Rochester General Hospital in Rochester, New York. You went to Benilde St. Margaret’s School in Minnesota. You graduated from Samwell four years ago in 2014. You-”

 

“I’m not real, Daniela!” I don’t mean to snap at her, but I can’t help it. The more she insists this is all in my head, the harder she’s making it for me. “I tried. I did; I really did, but I can’t keep pretending anymore. I can’t fight it. I’m not-”

 

“Johnny, please. Come home. However bad a space your head is at right now, we’ll get through  it...together. Please let me help.”

 

I wipe my eyes with my t-shirt. “You can’t help a fictional character.”

 

“Yes, yes you can.  Please, Johnny, I love you.”

 

“That’s what hurts the most. That she gave us these feelings, the enormity of them, but they’re a fabrication. Because love? It sure felt real,”  there are thick tears in my voice.

 

“You are not a fictional character. I know it seems true in your mind, but it’s not. You are real. You are kind and good, you have dreams. It will get better I promise.”

 

“No! She’s just making you say that. Don’t you get it? We’re just lines on a goddamn page, Dani! It’s not fair, and I’m sorry. Don’t worry; it’ll all be okay. After all, this story is ultimately a happy one.  I just can’t fit into The Creator’s mold anymore.” I don’t give her a chance to respond before I hang up the receiver. She’ll worry.

 

I know she will, and I hate myself for it.

 

“Now boarding Schedule 0275 Boston to Bennington at Dock 2.”

 

How strange I must look, stepping aboard the bus with no luggage, with nothing except the clothes on my back. Less to carry means a lighter load for where I’m going. I look at my fellow passengers and their bags, their families...not a face on any of them. If only they knew how pointless this all was for them.

 

I’m lucky to find an empty window seat and settle in for the eight hour trip ahead. As I let my eyes slip closed, I hope the travelling goes swiftly...and quietly.

 

***

 

The wooden entrance sign to the park swings ominously in the breeze with a slight creak as it moves back and forth on its short chain. All I can think as I listen to it taunt me is that it could use a new coat of green paint. It’s flaking, cracking, revealing the unfinished wood underneath. I bark out a wet laugh at the similarities between it and how I feel right now.

 

It rained earlier; the trail is still wet. Not muddy, just wet. The smell of damp soil and raindrops hangs thick in the air. It’s almost autumn now, early September to be exact, and I can see a few trees’ leaves beginning to change color. What should be a forest full of vibrant hues of green, there is only a muted picture around me. It’s almost as though my running is catching up to me. Before I arrived, this place was probably a painter’s dream palette. In the distance, I can hear birds, but it’s not a song they’re singing.

 

They’re mocking me.

 

_Stupid Johnson, ruining everything he touches. Couldn’t leave well enough alone._

 

_Alone. Cheep Cheep. Alone. Well enough alone._

 

It’s a cruel song of laughter, beautifully cruel; it hurts like a thousand cuts. Still, though, I trudge on. They’re right, and that’s the whole point of this.

 

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “Johnson, if you’re fictional won’t The Creator know where you’ve gone, what you’re doing?” But no. Ask any writer. Sometimes your characters do things, go directions you don’t plan. That is precisely what I have done, what I _am_ doing. This is the problem with making your characters self-aware of their illusory lives, or the risk, shall I say?

 

Ever see _The Truman Show_? Once he learns his life is a lie made up for the amusement of others on a television program, he makes like a Queen song and wants to break free. Eventually, the character can become fed-up with the fiction. I could make references to dozens of pieces of media here, but I won’t, because it won’t matter, and it won’t change a damn thing.

 

The forest is empty for a summer day, but then again, it’s Wednesday. Not a prime day for family outings. All the more reason for me to stop in the middle of a trail and voice my frustration to the computer screens in the sky above.

 

“Is this what you wanted?” I scream up at the clouds where I know there are people watching, but I also know they can’t see a damn thing through the canopy of leaves. I’m counting on that.

 

And so, I disappear into the woods for places unknown, taking one last, longing glance over my shoulder. The impenetrable forest swallows me whole with a breath of fog, tree branches smacking me on the back, and I can’t help but wonder. Am I a real person or merely the concept of one? I guess I’ll never know now.

 

I pray no one ever finds me.

**Author's Note:**

> I know you said bonus points for a happy ending... And that just didn't quite fit with my idea. However, I hope the ambiguous, open-ended conclusion was still enjoyable.
> 
> Come reblog this work and view others from this fest [HERE](https://omgcpheartbreakfest.tumblr.com/) on the omgcpheartbreakfest tumblr page!


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